


To Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth

by Onyx_and_Elm



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Banter, But Actually It's A Three Shot, Dementors, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Love/Hate, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Office Sex, One Shot, POV Hermione Granger, Patronus, Post-Canon, Post-Hogwarts, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Smut, Snarky Draco Malfoy, Teaching, lots of banter, this is the closest i can get to fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22914067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onyx_and_Elm/pseuds/Onyx_and_Elm
Summary: “You can’t do it, can you?”And she hears, rather than sees him stop dead. The rough squeak of his shoes. She doesn’t turn to face him, even as she twists the knife.“You can’t conjure a Patronus.”
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 150
Kudos: 1897
Collections: Got me in my feelings <3





	1. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1E6nzpe8PxQGj81ZZWlQI9?si=A-Eksik7SvydU9diM6D3dQ

Normally, she’d opt for more appropriate language — but this is a cock-up.

There’s no other way to say it.

Just as there’s no way to pretend that what she’s about to do isn’t the worst idea she’s ever had in her life.

It starts out like a normal morning. Tea to-go in one hand — Earl Grey with half a lemon, only slightly over-brewed, as always — and her bag in the other, Hermione steps out of the Floo grate into the Ministry the same way she’s done for the past three years. By no means is said cock-up in _any way_ her doing.

Later, she’ll be told that it was, in fact, the blunder of an unpaid intern.

But none of that really matters, because she’s Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation — and as any Head of any Ministry department would tell you, one cannot simply turn a blind eye. Even if the Head in question has just spilled scalding hot tea — Earl Grey with half a lemon — down her brand new pencil skirt.

She’s walked headlong into catastrophe.

Ahead, on one side of the atrium, a wall of Aurors, Healers, secretaries and all other imaginable Ministry employees — and on the other, Dementors. Hundreds.

A thin layer of ice has spread its way across the black marble floors, crawling up the pillars and arches and onto the gold moldings around the Floo grates. The fountain’s frozen into a twisted sculpture, and all around, a penetrating sense of dread hangs in the air.

Witches and wizards like herself, on their way in for the day, have stopped in their tracks along the passage of grates, some slack-jawed — others in tears at the abruptly foul atmosphere. Hermione steps around them, wand already tight in hand, forcing herself closer despite the cold. Despite the misery.

The shouts of the Ministry workers trying to control the situation grow louder. Frantically cast Patronus charms, commands to one another, along with general cries of panic. The Dementors swarm them, weightless cloaks dragging through the air, skeletal hands reaching — grasping. Wanting so desperately to suck the life out of something.

Hermione stops a few feet in front of the fountain. Struggles to close her eyes and gather a slow breath.

It’s been a long time since she’s experienced this sort of panic — panic she now links to wartime. A long time since she’s needed to dredge up a happy memory.

Staring at the backs of her eyelids, she forces herself to be eleven again. To stand in the kitchen of her family home with the post her father had just brought in. Relives the moment she pried the lip of the Hogwarts envelope free of its wax seal.

_“Expecto patronum!”_

She opens her eyes to watch the pale blue wisps fly from the tip of her wand, her otter forming delicately in midair. The charm pauses only a second to make eye contact with her, then flies off to do its work, barreling forth into the black cloud of cloaked wraiths.

“Hermione!” The relieved voice of Harry from somewhere to her left. He sprints into sight moments later, a little breathless, wand still outstretched behind him to control his stag.

“Harry! What—”

“No idea. Somehow they got loose. We’ve called up all Aurors and Curse-Breakers, but we’re only just starting to get a handle on it.” He nudges her with an elbow. “Glad you’re here though. Come on.”

They spend the next half hour corralling the sea of Dementors into a somewhat more manageable, walled-in bubble of Patronus charms, and it’s then that she notices. Then that the chaos becomes a certified cock-up.

Not for anyone else. Just for Hermione. Just for her stubborn will and her Healer’s nature. Professor McGonagall always said she could’ve considered a career at St. Mungo’s…

No, for everyone else, the situation is nearly under control. But as she and the others start the slow exodus back towards the usual holdings for Dementors, her eyes catch on him. Skid to a halt.

Draco Malfoy.

The only former Death Eater who seems able to bear the near-constant judgment that comes with a Ministry career — or perhaps the only one with so few options. He’d trained and been hired as a Curse-Breaker nearly a year after she started, once his house arrest had expired.

And up until this moment, Hermione hasn’t thought of him.

Which has been pleasant.

But now her eyes are fixed to the spot, watching unblinking as, time and time again — tucked into the corner behind a pillar — Draco Malfoy tries and fails to produce a Patronus.

 _“Blast,”_ he spits, shaking his wand as though it’ll help. “Come on. Damn you — _come on.”_ She watches, transfixed, as he rights himself, blows a steadying breath through the ‘o’ of his lips and then flicks his wand again. _“Expecto patronum.”_

The tip of his wand coughs out a faded puff of blue smoke and nothing more.

And Malfoy looks about ready to snap it in two.

She doesn’t know what it is — will probably never know what it is that makes her do it. Hadn’t even noticed herself closing the distance between them. But the words are already too far up her throat.

“The Dementors are gone.”

Malfoy jerks and spins to face her with all the vigor and panic of man caught doing something unspeakable. The way a murderer greets the police. Color blooms in his cheeks, though he seems somehow able to command it to disperse just as quickly.

And all too soon, he’s pale and scowling again — like always.

“Granger,” he announces flatly. There’s no disdain in his tone. He’s got it carefully hidden beneath a thin veneer of professionalism. “Yes, thank you. I noticed.”

 _Leave it at that, then,_ says the voice in her head.

“Oh. Well. It didn’t seem like you did.”

_Or don’t._

She can see his lip quiver as he actively struggles not to sneer. “I did.”

Hermione blinks. “Alright.”

“Alright.”

There’s an impossibly long moment of silence. Strained. Painful.

Malfoy coughs and pockets his wand. “Right.” He moves to step past her.

And this is the real cock-up.

Just after his shoulder brushes against hers — just before he’s out of earshot — she somehow decides her life isn’t complicated enough. That there’s always room for more trouble.

“You can’t do it, can you?”

And she hears, rather than sees him stop dead. The rough squeak of his shoes. She doesn’t turn to face him, even as she twists the knife.

“You can’t conjure a Patronus.”

A beat of silence.

Then that professionalism dies in the water. “The _fuck_ do you care, Granger?”

Hermione startles, turning to him now with eyes a little wide — though she really shouldn’t be surprised. She poked a snake and it bit back.

“It’s just an observation,” she says quietly.

Malfoy’s nose wrinkles as he looks her up and down. “Keep those to yourself,” he snaps. Pivots and strides from the atrium, hands jammed into his trouser pockets.

It’s the last she sees of him for a week.

What about it that fascinates her, she has no idea.

For several nights, she lies awake — contemplates the meaning of it. The meaning _behind_ it, if there really is any at all.

The simplest and most basic answer, the one all the books she’s already read will tell her, is that the Patronus charm takes a great deal of skill. Great discipline. That even the most talented witches and wizards need hours and hours of training to conjure it. Even more to achieve a corporeal form.

She should know. It took her weeks to learn it from Harry in Fifth Year, and she fancied herself a quick study.

Malfoy never got that training, as far as she knows. So that’s that.

Only it’s not. There’s more to it. There — there _has_ to be.

She doesn’t know how she knows it but she does. Something’s holding him back. Malfoy may’ve been bested by Harry in school. By her as well, many times over. But he was never any less than third in their entire class. Gifted.

He’d have figured it out on his own by now if there wasn’t something standing in his way.

And for some inexplicable reason — tangled up in that agonized frustration she saw on his face and that hopeless resignation she saw in his eyes — she has to know what it is. And if practicality is what she needs to push her forward, then the fact of the matter is she can’t afford to lose any more sleep over it.

Friday morning, eyes wreathed dark with exhaustion, she foregoes her usual tea and arrives at the Ministry armed with a triple shot of espresso. That, and a loose plan.

She waits all day to put it into action, second-guessing herself every other minute. Because, of course he won't go for it. Or — well, perhaps he will. If he’s desperate enough. Maybe if she backs him into a proverbial corner with it. Uses that toxic Malfoy pride against him. Yes. Maybe. No. No, probably not. Or… _well…_

She’s half-mad by lunch, and even worse off as the dreaded hour grows near. Her hands shake as she watches the clock, that espresso upsetting her usual balance. Paperwork piles up on her desk.

And when at last it’s upon her — fifteen minutes before the Ministry closes for the evening — she’s almost not sure she can go through with it. She stands anyhow, legs stiff. Straightens her skirt.

She has the good sense to remind herself that these are hardly the highest stakes she’s dealt with. For Heaven’s sake, it’s only Malfoy.

The thought spurs her on. Pushes her feet forward. Before long, she’s backed against the wall of the crowded lift, zipping sideways and down as she listens to Cormac McLaggen and Michael Corner discuss their weekend plans.

She tries to relax and let her mind go blank. This is a simple favor she’s offering. Nothing more. A way to sate her curiosity.

Almost too suddenly, she’s alone in the lift, catapulting straight down and then stopping with a jolt.

 _“Office for the Removal of Curses, Jinxes and Hexes,”_ a voice drones, and Hermione staggers out onto the polished mahogany floor.

She’s lucky she’s greeted first by a friendly face.

“Hermione?” Bill Weasley looks to have been just locking up his office. “Nice surprise. How are you?” He stalks over, tossing all of his personal effects over one arm to give her shoulder a squeeze.

“Hi, Bill. Fine,” she smiles, “thank you. Off for the day?”

“Yes, yes — Fleur goes barking when I’m home late, what with the Veela in —” He interrupts himself. “Unless, of course, you needed something? Happy to sta—”

“Oh, no. No, thank you. I’m — erm…I’m actually here to see Malfoy, if he’s in.”

One of Bill’s red brows arches up, scars coming with it.

She tries to keep her face straight. “Just have a question about a case — seems best suited for him.”

Bill nods, but that brow stays arched. “Right. Right, yeah.” He glances down at his timepiece. “Suppose he’s probably still here. Usually one of the last ones out. Second office on the left.”

She smiles again. “Thank you. Give my best to Fleur.”

His returning smile is tucked — a bit pinched, even — but he leaves without another word. Just the ding of the lift.

For a moment, Hermione can only stare down the ominous hallway, working up the nerve to get yelled at. Possibly even called a Mudblood for the first time in years.

But the longer she stands there — the longer she thinks about it — the less ominous it feels.

It’s just a hallway. And he’s just Malfoy.

And Mudblood is just a word.

She breathes out and steps up to the second door on the left. Knocks twice, succinctly.

“Felix?” comes Malfoy’s muffled voice. Pinched, just like his face always is. “Come in. I thought you were dropping them off tomorr—”

He breaks off as she enters.

“Oh,” he says, chair halfway swiveled to face her. “You’re not Felix.”

And there’s something odd about it. About the way his expression doesn’t instantly sour. It takes a moment. Almost like his disdain forgets to kick in.

But then, of course, it does. It always does.

“What do you want, Granger?” He jolts up an icy blond brow. “Wrong floor?”

She allows herself the luxury of a long pause. Sorts out her thoughts — how she wants to play this — all the while with him just leaning back in his chair, _staring_ at her. Like she’s lost her mind.

Maybe she has.

Blinking once, she makes herself turn and shut the door. And if Malfoy looked surprised before, he’s absolutely confounded when she looks back. Nevertheless, he manages to dig up some residual snark.

“Oh, I see. Going to attempt a murder?”

She ignores him, tugging once on her blazer before striding across the office to take a seat in the chair facing his desk. It’s stiff. The sort of stiff that makes her think it’s never been sat in before.

She doubts Malfoy gets many visitors.

To his credit, he waits for her to speak. And all things considered, she should’ve had plenty of time to come up with the proper phrasing. Instead, all she says is, “I can teach you.”

Malfoy’s surprise fades into confusion — possibly a bit of exhaustion, as well, from the way he lifts a hand to rub at his temple. “What?”

“I can teach you,” she says again, more firmly now. “How to produce a Patronus.”

A hot flicker in those cold eyes. Nothing more. Malfoy’s learned to school his expressions when it counts. That much is clear. He leans back in his chair, and his voice is passive. “Come off it, Granger.” A moment later he drops her gaze and sits up, reaching for his quill. “This isn’t Hogwarts.” A scratched out signature on a form. Now his tone is business-like. “You are not a tutor. And I don’t need one.”

She can’t help it.

Her eyes catch on the corner of his Mark, revealed when the sleeve of his shirt rides up with another signature. Just the faintest flash of faded black. And it’s impossible to look away before he catches her.

Quickly, she glances at her feet, feeling the blush spread out across her cheeks. “It’s an important charm to know. I’m offering—”

“There’s very little in this world that disgusts me more than charity.” His sharp tone draws her eyes, but he doesn’t look up from his papers. From more signatures. All the sloping M’s and slithering Y’s that make up his surname.

And perhaps it’s because she doesn’t like being interrupted — or perhaps it’s seeing that name written out so many times — but for the briefest moment she wants to wound him.

“Except for my blood, of course.”

His eyes flit up, sharp as knives. “…What?”

“My blood,” she says again, pointedly avoiding his gaze. “That disgusts you more, I’m sure.” She clears her throat and starts to smooth out her skirt. She’s swimming into murky waters she’d rather not navigate. “Even so, it’s not charity. Rest assured.”

When she manages to meet his eyes again, she’s surprised at the rage she finds there. Not even hidden. Plain across his face, as though he’d like nothing more in this moment than to lunge across his desk and wring her neck.

She actually shifts backward an inch.

“What is it then, Granger?” he practically growls. _“Gloating?”_

It takes everything in her to manage a shrug. One she hopes appears as a shrug, and not the shiver it feels like. “It’s a safety concern. A liability to the Ministry. Everyone working here should know how to produce a Patronus.” She swallows as his eyes somehow darken further. Forces out. “Especially a Curse-Breaker.”

Malfoy appears to mull this over, breathing out audibly through his nose. Then he huffs out a laugh, and there’s absolutely no humor in it. “Always dotting those I’s and crossing those T’s, aren’t you?”

Hermione’s cursing every instinct that brought her down here, now, but at the very least she manages to bite back, “I’m offering to _help,_ Malfoy.” She shoves herself to her feet. “Stupid of me, I suppose. Forgot you’re the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

She’s halfway to the door by the time he snorts.

“Look a _what?”_

Her hand hovers over the doorknob. “A gift horse,” she echoes quietly. Hears him stand but doesn’t turn back.

“Some ridiculous Muggle phrase, I’m guessing?”

His footsteps are impossibly loud, and a part of her panics as she senses him moving closer. But Malfoy doesn’t seem stupid or reckless enough to try to hurt her. Not on Ministry property.

She doesn’t think.

“What does it mean?” he asks, and he must be less than a meter behind her.

She finally turns, if only not to have her back to him. Finds him standing a few feet away, hands in his trouser pockets, expression unreadable.

_Was he always so tall?_

She shakes the thought free and juts up her chin. “It means you’re _ungrateful,_ Malfoy. As always. It means nothing’s changed.”

A slow blink is all she gets — equally hard to decipher.

Then, “What makes you think you could teach me?”

Is — is he actually considering it? She tries not to let her brows furrow, but she can’t mask her expressions the way he can. “Because…I remember how Harry taught me.”

“Then why shouldn’t I go to Potter?” Malfoy takes one step closer, and her breath hitches. “If he’s the best of the best. The _Chosen One.”_

She steels herself. Clutches the doorknob behind her. “Because he would never offer.”

And with that, she wrenches open the door and makes her escape.


	2. 2

It’s weeks.

Weeks since the _incident_ , as she refers to it in her head. Since the momentary, catastrophic lapse in judgment that brought her down to Malfoy’s office. Occasionally, she finds herself lying awake at night, wondering what could’ve possibly happened had he agreed.

But then she wonders how she could’ve ever imagined he would in the first place, and it’s usually enough to let her roll over and shut her eyes. It doesn’t matter.

Enough time has passed, in fact, that she’s well on her way to forgetting about the whole ordeal. Pretending it never happened. Almost.

That is — until the two of them are forced to share a lift.

Logically, the odds are against it. She works five levels up, and he’s six levels down. Their routes should never overlap. So it would seem that the Fates are against them, sending him to the Department of Mysteries on this Friday just as she’s on her way to discuss a relocation with the Portkey Office.

She almost backs out of the lift when she notices him in the corner.

But that would be ridiculous. And cowardly.

And she’d be late to meet with Rhodes.

So she steels herself and manages to turn her back to him, cutting off his pointed stare. Fixes her eyes on the gold bars of the lift doors and does her best to focus only on whatever the gentleman next to her is muttering nervously to himself.

“—just temporary. It’ll wear off. Of course it will. It has to. Of course it will. It’s temporary. Just temporar—”

_“Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes,”_ the lift announces, and the man scampers off, taking her focus with him.

Now there’s only one other person in the—

_“Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”_

_Blast,_ now she’s gone too.

No. No, it’s perfectly fine. There are only two more floors before the Portkey Office — well, that and a diagonal shift backwards, but that will take hardly any time at all. If she can just keep facing forward, she’ll—

_“Immobulus,”_ says Malfoy in a calm, low voice.

The lift jerks to a halt, somewhere between floors, and Hermione feels her stomach lunge up into her throat.

For a moment, not a word is said — not a movement made. She blinks rapidly at the gold bars in front of her, one hand feeling for her wand just as Malfoy takes a step forward. Appears in her periphery, still looking straight ahead as she is.

“Did you…” she squeaks out, and god, what a pathetic sound. “Did you just…stop the lift?”

“Very astute of you, Granger,” he drawls, and she has to stop her gaze from jutting sideways to watch him twirl his wand between his fingers. “You’ll be shocked to know that not all my spellwork is so…” Wordless magic flows towards her as he trails off — little flames dancing in midair, forming themselves delicately into a Chinese dragon. It dances around her, swirling counterclockwise past her waist, then around and across the backs of her thighs — eliciting a yelp she can’t contain — just before it falls away to ash. _“…unrefined,”_ he finishes.

And she turns to look at the wall. Refuses to let him see the bright shade of scarlet strewn across her face. He’s likely out to intimidate, but she thinks perhaps — in the darkest, most buried, forgotten recesses of her brain — that he may’ve achieved something else entirely. Which makes no sense. No logical sense at all. And it’s purely situational. Has to be. A result of her nerves and the heat trapped inside the lift and possibly sleep deprivation. Yes, that’s all it is.

Regardless, she’s not about to let him see it on her face.

She needs out of this lift. _Immediately._

“I’m late to a meeting, Malfoy. Is there something you’d like to say?” A pause. A silence. She feels the need to add, “Or do you often trap witches in lifts and try to set them on fire?”

Malfoy huffs out a laugh — has she ever heard him laugh like that before? — and he moves again, at last, to lean his back against the bars casually. “No, that’s just for you, Granger. Special.”

She can tell from his tone that it’s not a compliment. Not friendly, by any means — but compounded on top of the situation, she finds herself looking even further towards the wall. So pointedly away from him that it’s embarrassing and bordering on childish. She takes hold of one of the handles hanging from the ceiling, if only to give her fingers something to do other than fidget.

“What do you _want,_ Malfoy?”

Another infuriating silence. She can tell even without looking that he’s toying with her. Enjoying her discomfort.

“You’re right,” he says finally.

“About what?”

“Potter wouldn’t have offered.”

It catches her off guard, and she finds herself unable to keep her gaze away. Glances back, hoping against all hope that the flush has subsided and all he can see is confusion.

His posture against the bars is odd. Malfoy — always so stiff and pompous. So _Pureblood._ She used to wonder whether he had a broom shoved up somewhere to hold his spine so straight, the pointy git. Except now he’s — lax. Every angle smoothed out, every muscle comfortable. Leaning with one foot propped back against a bar and one hand lazily tucked into a pocket. She glances away from his forearm, trying to convince herself she was looking for his Mark and not at the thin cords of muscle trailing up and disappearing beneath his sleeve.

But when she pulls her gaze away, it lands on his face. On calm, yet guarded eyes and a sharp jaw and that blindingly blond hair falling into his eyes. Longer now that it ever was at school.

She swallows. Holds his gaze and straightens her chin and manages. “No, he wouldn’t have.”

Malfoy nods once. Reaffirms. Then he juts up an eyebrow and murmurs, “But you did.”

She grips the handle tighter. Waits.

“Why did you?”

Another swallow. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other to right herself. “Like I said. It’s a lia—”

“Liability to the Ministry,” he huffs and nods, almost another laugh. Scratches a spot on his neck with the tip of his wand and draws her eyes there. “Yeah, I remember.” He flicks his wand, then, surprising her. _“Finite.”_

The lift jerks back into motion, and thank god she’s clutching the handle or she would’ve surely toppled over. They zip sideways and down, and all the while he keeps staring at her.

That is — until, the lift whips to a stop, jerking her forward and declaring, _“Portkey Office.”_

The bars start to pull apart, and just as she moves to step past him — step out onto solid, sure, _uncomplicated_ ground — he steps into her instead. Comes closer than he ever has, and it feels like the wind gets knocked out of her.

“Sounds like a load of rubbish to me,” he hisses into her ear, and the scent of his cologne clouds up around her nose. Fir and tobacco and what just might be the faintest tinge of whiskey—

He steps back, returning to his corner in the lift and jutting his chin up like nothing’s happened.

“Off you go, Granger.”

She staggers out and gulps down the fresh air. Refuses to move until she hears the lift pull away behind her, taking him with it.

_Good god._

She summons Ginny for an _"emergency pint."_

It’s the best she can manage. And while she doesn’t disclose whatever unfounded and psychotic hormonal emotions wrecked their way through her inside that lift, she does admit that she’s rowed herself into dark waters with Draco Malfoy.

Ginny, halfway through her third pint — it seems to be a Weasley trait, the ability to knock them back — says casually, “It doesn’t really surprise me.”

“What doesn’t?” Hermione’s voice comes out far more desperate than she’d like. But she’s two pints in and with no wooden leg to show for it.

Ginny jolts a fiery brow. “That he can’t produce a Patronus.”

“Oh, that? No — it does —” She hiccups. _“Does_ surprise me.” Another generous sip. “He was phenomenal at Charms. Narrowly overtook me, and I don’t even think he studied.”

Ginny not-so-subtly slides Hermione’s pint out of reach. “Phenomenal, hmm?”

“At _Charms,”_ Hermione slurs. “An important distraction — _distinction._ Distinction.”

“Right, we’re closing the tab.” And as she helps Hermione navigate the abruptly treacherous route out of the pub, she adds, “Here’s the good news, alright? All you have to do is take the offer back.”

And she’s drunk, yes. But not too drunk to ruminate on that for the rest of the night.

Take it back. _Take it back._

What if she doesn’t want to take it back?

It is now violently clear that she’s lost her mind.

Gone. Abandoned in that lift. _Poof._

Because on Monday morning, after a near-sleepless weekend, she finds herself brushing important paperwork aside in favor of spreading out a clear sheet of parchment.

_Malfoy,_ she scribbles. _Perhaps you’re right._

Her quill hesitates there for a good minute or two, dripping ink over and over onto the same spot — a black hole of punctuation. She can’t think of anything else to say or how to phrase it. And so, sans-mind, she decides that’s plenty and sends it off as is. Flicks her wand, watching the parchment fold itself into a paper airplane with all its permanency and all its consequences and then whisk off to find its target. Six levels down.

She drives herself mad thinking about it for the next few hours, fingers twirling the ends of her hair into frizzy chaos, teeth peeling the skin off her bottom lip. She realized only moments after she sent it that she hadn’t signed her name. What if he doesn’t know who wrote it? What if he doesn’t understand?

But then, with five minutes left until her lunch break, a piece of parchment comes whizzing into her office and nearly strikes her in the nose. She pulls it from the air with more vigor than she’d care to admit, flattening it out and finding only one word. Written in spindly, crooked letters that seem all at once ghastly and all at once entirely Malfoy.

_Oh?_

That’s it. That’s all he gives her. Written beneath her previous note, with its gash of ink and the pathetic, hopeful upturn of her own handwriting.

Bastard.

However, one thing is clear. He does know it’s her.

She doubts he’d send such a vague and altogether _cheeky_ one-liner to anyone else at the Ministry. As far as she’s heard, he takes his position here quite seriously.

And yet, her he treats differently.

_“That’s just for you, Granger,”_ his voice echoes in her head. _“Special.”_

Remembering the words sends an unconscious shiver through her, and she means to ignore it. He’d meant _special_ in the tormenting sense. In the ideal target sense.

He had.

Nevertheless, she finds herself scratching out another curt sentence to send his way.

_I’ll admit I’m…curious._

This time, his response comes within an alarming fifteen minutes.

_Use your words, Granger,_ it demands, and she blows a hot breath out through her nose, glaring at his hideous handwriting. Fine. He wants to play it that way? She’ll be blunt. Blunt as blunt force trauma, thanks ever so.

_I’m curious why you can’t manage it. I’m curious why a boy — so outspoken about his magical talents — who never resisted the chance to show them off, mind you — would find such a crucial spell so uncooperative._

She has no qualms sending it to him. Feels more comfortable, in fact, with this one than the others. It’s like sitting in a familiar chair — reverting back to their old ways. Bickering. Taunting.

It’s nice to be on the taunting end.

_That all?_ comes flying back to her, inked more darkly than the other messages. She can practically hear his snarky tone barking it at her.

Well…if he’s asking.

_And perhaps I’m curious what form it will take._

It’s starting to alarm her secretary Amelia — all these missives flying back and forth, each time with parchment more wrinkled and worn than the last. As Malfoy’s latest comes careening through, Hermione catches her following it with wide eyes.

“Finalizing the details of a contract,” Hermione calls out to her, making a show of rolling her own eyes. Amelia nods and forces a laugh.

And as soon as she turns away, Hermione tears into the parchment. She doesn’t feel like dissecting her emotions in this moment. Doesn’t want to think about why she might be so eager. Excited, even. But no, she’s not thinking about it.

_Always so arrogant, Granger. So sure of yourself,_ his scrawl jeers. _What makes you think you could ever teach me well enough to see it?_

She tries to ignore the way she audibly growls, forcing the corners of the parchment flat so she can scribble her reply. Her quill tears through the weakened material once or twice.

_Oh, I could teach you, Malfoy. I’d wager it’d take me less than a day._

And perhaps she sends it back too fast. Perhaps he’s stepped out for a meeting. Perhaps the letter’s gotten mixed up with the hundreds upon hundreds of others flying around. Or perhaps he’s ignoring her. But his reply doesn’t come for hours.

She’s almost finished packing up her things to leave for the night, trying not to think about it. Trying even harder not to feel disappointed, because that — well, that’s simply ridiculous.

But just as she’s making to step across the threshold, his response really does hit her square in the nose.

And Hermione thanks the heavens Amelia’s already gone, because no one needs to witness the way she tears that wrinkled thing open.

Something nervous and jittery flutters in her stomach as she stares at his words — something she doesn’t fully understand.

_Prove it._

Her eyes pass over the dark scrawl once, twice — a third time, trying to somehow wrench his intentions free of the ink.

She runs a hand through her hair, already mussed and tangled from dealing with her nervous fingers all day. Is he serious? Or is he teasing? Calling her bluff, perhaps? He can’t possibly—

Her eyes stutter on the corner of the page where it’s wrinkled and bent, and she can see he’s written something on the back as well.

She flips it over so fast the bottom half rips clean off.

_Yes,_ he’s written. _I mean it._

Her breath makes a shaky, nervous exit from her throat. There’s no time or location, which means she can only assume he’s saying _now._ Right now.

And she…

Well —

_Shit,_ she thinks.

Now it’s a cock-up.

She knocks twice. Quietly.

Because she’s sure, without a doubt now, that this is the worst idea she’s ever had. Just as sure as she is that, any minute, her heart might thud its way right out of her chest and flop wetly onto the floor outside Malfoy’s office.

Which — at least he’d have to clean up the mess.

“I’m guessing you’re still not Felix?” he calls dryly. And damn him for somehow finding this whole situation in any way amusing.

“No,” she croaks. Of course it’s a croak. Not the sure-of-herself, strong-willed, womanly voice she ought to have. No, of course not.

This time, Malfoy opens the door himself. Again, the scent of his cologne assaults her, washing up in a great swathe after being trapped inside the office with him.

“Good,” he says curtly, eyeing her up and down. “I don’t much care for Felix.”

And what is _that_ supposed to mean?

She blinks at him. He’s wearing all black today. She’s not sure why she notices.

“Going to stand there and gawk all evening?” he drawls.

“Unless you get out of the way.” Banter, at the very least, seems to operate automatically when he’s around. And thank god for that, because the rest of her’s hardly operating at all.

“Please?” he mocks.

She scoffs and forces herself to duck under his arm, striding into his office with what she hopes is a manner of easy nonchalance.

Her eyes linger on his desk as she hears him shut the door, finding a small portrait of Narcissa and little else personal. Just piles and piles of parchment. His quills. A packet of mints.

And one oddly dainty looking teacup she didn’t notice before. One that doesn’t fit in with the rest.

It’s white porcelain, with little gold and pink swirls painted onto it, sitting on a matching saucer. And it’s so disarming to find a thing like that on Malfoy’s desk that she reaches for it subconsciously.

The smack of his hand shackling her wrist is audible. It practically _echoes,_ and her wrist stings where his skin makes contact.

She sucks in a sharp breath, yanking against him instinctively.

Malfoy lets her go just as quickly, taking two steps to block her view of the desk. She stares at him, wide-eyed, tucking her arm behind her where she can feel the red imprint of his hand blossoming.

“What is _wrong_ with—”

“Don’t touch things that aren’t yours.”

She’s surprised by the sharpness in his voice. Tries to mask her shock with a snort and a look of disdain. “A teacup, Malfoy? Really?”

“Least of all, that.”

She huffs, trying to regain an air of casualness and plopping down into that stiff chair. “Rich boys and their _things,”_ she sneers, crossing one leg over the other.

Slowly, the hardness melts from Malfoy’s expression, leaving that sarcastic mask in its place. “Oh, I do love my things, Granger. Make no mistake.” He holds her gaze for a long moment. Long enough to truly unsettle her. Then he steps to the side, giving her a view of the teacup again. “But this is one thing I love that even I won’t touch.”

A spike of treacherous curiosity rears in her chest as he moves to sit behind his desk. “Why?”

Malfoy’s words are light. Blasé. “Because it killed the first three people who tried.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his own leg, ankle on his knee.

Her brows jolt up. “It’s cursed?”

His gaze is calculating. He waits a moment before he nods. “The only one I’ve been unable to break.”

Then why the bloody hell would he keep it on his _desk,_ the psychotic bastard—

“And also my favorite,” he adds, thin lips quirking up on the side.

She shifts where she sits, because his tone is odd. Dark. Complicated. “Why?” she asks again, softer now.

Malfoy’s gaze seems to sharpen by the second. Piercing through her own eyes and digging deeper still, like he’s trying to see through her head and out the other side. “I like things I don’t understand.”

She allows herself to stare back only a moment longer, before she feels she might actually lose something in the process. And what, she’s not sure. She tears her gaze away and glances down at her stockings.

Of course he’s a Curse-Breaker, then. An occupation full of mysterious, nonsensical things.

It takes an absurd amount of effort to draw her focus back to the matter at hand, but somehow she manages to clear her throat and say, “Well, then you’ll enjoy this lesson. A Patronus is a complex thing.”

“Oh, I understand the Patronus, Granger.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I just can’t produce one. Be a shame if you came all the way down here hoping to _lecture_ me to death. One Flitwick was enough.”

She bristles. Sits up a little straighter in that god-awful, uncomfortable chair. “Hands-on is the only way to teach the charm. Rest assured, you’ll be hearing very little _lecturing_ out of me.”

He leans further forward. “Promise?”

Her eyes tighten. She shoves herself to her feet and pulls out her wand. “If you promise not to be a prick.”

Malfoy makes a show of leaning back, as though the word itself has blown a gust of wind at him. “My, my. The Golden Girl has a filthy mouth. Who knew?”

She gathers her free hand into a fist. At the very least, _this_ is the Malfoy she remembers. “I’ll leave,” she threatens. “Don’t push it.”

Malfoy sighs as though she’s ruined his fun and follows suit, getting to his feet. He stalks around the desk to her, and it takes all she has not to take a step back when he comes a little too close.

“I promise not to be a _prick,”_ he murmurs, and the way his lips form around the word — like he’s savoring it — makes her shoulders bunch up. Makes her shiver.

She tries valiantly to hide it. Gives herself a shake and turns away, putting distance between them. She adopts a neutral tone. “Good. Then that’s settled. I’ll take this seriously if you do, Malfoy. Take out your wand.”

His brow is quirked when she turns back, but he does as she asks. “What’s your plan, then? Going to put a Dementor on loan for the evening?”

She opens her mouth to retort. Shuts it. Glances away and then back at him. “Do you know, that’s not a half-bad idea. May I borrow a quill?”

“Granger, I wasn’t seri—”

“I am. Perfectly. A quill and parchment please.” She holds out her hand expectantly, and now, at least, she feels more in her element.

Malfoy looks on with a note of disapproval as she writes our her request to the Beast, Being and Spirit Division. It’s hardly the strangest thing she’s asked for, and she feels confident they’ll send one down within the hour.

After all — it’s one thing to produce a Patronus in the comfort of one’s home. It’s another entirely to produce it when it’s _necessary._

If she’s going to do this, she’s going to do it properly.

Malfoy huffs under his breath as she sends the missive off. “Of course you have the clearance to actually _rent_ a Dementor.”

She ignores him, once more assuming her spot at the other end of his office and taking a seat on the small bench where she intends to observe. “Right. We’ll start off slow.”

And slow it is.

Malfoy seems to lose a great deal of his suave sarcasm in the face of a rather defeating thirty minutes. And Hermione does her best to keep her expression blank as she calls out, “Again,” over and over, watching him curse and growl under his breath as he sends out puff after useless puff of blue from the tip of his wand.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she says when it looks like he’s getting too frustrated. “Take a rest.” And she conjures him a cup of tea.

Malfoy drops into that awful chair, sipping at it and then wrinkling his nose. “This isn’t how I take it.”

“Then fix it yourself. You can do _some_ charms, can’t you?”

His glare is icy, and after a moment she averts her gaze.

“Anyhow, I just wanted to get a sense of what level you were at. Our starting point.”

“Is there a Level Zero?”

She quirks a brow. It’s odd to hear him demean himself. “Level Zero would be no response at all. Half the battle is producing the essence of a Patronus in the first place. Those blue wisps you see. You may not believe it, but you’re halfway there.”

Malfoy glances at her for a moment. Opens his mouth to say something, but there’s a knock at the door in the same instant.

“Ah.” Hermione stands from the bench. “That’ll be our Dementor.”

She says it with an air of humor, but from the way Malfoy’s face drains of what little color it can manage, he doesn’t find this funny at all. She watches him curiously for a moment before getting the door.

They’ve packaged the creature with care, no questions asked. It floats in, surrounded by a pre-existing Patronus that looks to have been charmed to last. The Patronus isn’t corporeal. That would take too much effort. No — just a simple blue, wispy bubble surrounding the wraith in its torn, black cloak.

One look at Malfoy’s face as it enters, and she feels the need to say, “Relax.”

His eyes flit to her, no sign of the usual Malfoy in them. Just fear. Plain and simple.

“Breathe,” she says, coming to stand in front of the Dementor to obscure his view. “We’re not going to start off with it.” A pause. She adds, “I wouldn’t do that. Not until you’re ready.”

He breathes heavily. Can’t tear his eyes away, staring past her shoulder. “What if I’m never ready?”

She takes a step forward, fully blocking his view, and his eyes find hers reluctantly. “You will be.”

Then she turns and casts a Glamour, erasing the Dementor from sight completely. Malfoy’s shoulders slump a little, but the tension doesn’t fully dissipate. He still knows it’s there.

“Focus on me,” she says, and he drags his eyes to her. It brings an odd flush to her cheeks when she realizes she’s asking Malfoy to look at her. A concept. “I’m assuming you know to think of a happy memory.”

He scoffs. Relaxes a bit further. “I’m not daft.”

She folds her arms and gazes at him expectantly. “Well, then. What do you think of?”

Malfoy hesitates. “That’s personal.”

She just juts out a hip and arches her eyebrow.

“What, Granger? I’m not about to just _welcome_ you into my private thoughts, alright?”

“Do you want to learn?”

_“Of course I want to learn.”_

It would seem even he’s surprised by the vigor of his words. He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it. Wrenches up his sleeves, apparently unaware that he’s also baring his Mark.

She tries not to look at it.

He sighs into his hand as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is it too much to ask that I not be…taken advantage of in the process?”

She makes a strange, indignant sound. “You think I’m taking advantage of you?”

“I — no — or, well. I just — ” Bloody hell, he’s really struggling. His eyes flit around aimlessly for a moment before fixing on her. “I just don’t really care to bare my soul here, Granger.”

She stares at him. Thinks on it for a moment and chooses her next words carefully.

“When Professor Lupin taught it to Harry,” she says, unfolding her arms and doing her best not to linger on the thought of Remus, “I remember Harry told me that ‘happy’ isn’t always so straightforward.”

Malfoy drops his hand away from his face.

“He said his first several attempts failed because he was trying to think of pure happiness. Pure exhilaration. In its simplest form.” She takes out her wand. Holds it aloft. “But a Patronus is anything but simple. And sometimes happiness isn’t what it takes. Let me show you something.”

There’s really no need to ask. Malfoy’s eyes are fixed on her — seem to be in no danger of deviating.

“A Patronus takes a lot out of you. There are varying levels of strength needed to produce them. When it’s one Dementor— when the threat is small enough — I think of the day I got my Hogwarts letter. It’s my strongest happy memory, and with it I can manage this.” She gathers a steady breath and says, _“Expecto Patronum,”_ softly and clearly.

Just as always, constant and unfailing, her otter swims out from the tip of her wand and Malfoy’s eyes dart around to follow it. It seems curious about his presence. Swims little circles around his legs and torso before she lets it fade away.

“A steady corporeal form,” she says. Doesn’t fail to notice the way Malfoy already looks defeated. Doubtful. “But,” she tacks on quickly, “it took me weeks to manage it with only that memory in mind. Like Harry, I thought happiness meant happiness and nothing more.” And she steels herself in order to take a confident step toward him. “I ask about your memory, Malfoy, because I think you may have the same problem. Because when I think of a different one, I get this, instead.”

She closes her eyes. Channels all of her focus into the one memory she rarely has to dredge up, the words of the charm falling instinctively from her lips.

Her Patronus bursts free of her wand with such earnest it jolts her back a step, and it’s Malfoy’s gasp that makes her open her eyes.

“It’s not…” he blurts out and trails off, staring wide-eyed.

“Not an otter, no.” And she watches with him, tracking the wispy form of the mountain lion as it prowls around the room, eyes predatory. Hunting. It finds the Glamoured Dementor almost immediately, growling and pulling its lips back over its teeth.

She lets it fade.

“I don’t understand,” Malfoy says quietly, staring where it used to be.

“I didn’t either, for a long time. The books don’t talk about it.” And she feels the sudden, strange urge to admit something to him. “I’ve learned not everything there is to know can be found in books.”

Something flashes behind Malfoy’s eyes. She isn’t sure what.

“Suffice it to say, I have to access a different side of myself to do what I just did.”

The next strange urge is stronger, and she finds herself taking two steps toward him — getting in his space, as he did hers.

“Am I correct, Malfoy, in assuming that you have no happy memory to feed off of?”

His eyes become guarded so quickly it’s almost shocking.

But she’s also somehow prepared for this. Expecting this. And when he sneers and starts to say, “You don’t know anything—” she cuts him off.

“You’re repressing something.”

His eyes narrow to slits.

“You’ve found a powerful memory, perhaps purely by instinct.” She becomes even more sure of the words as they flow out. “But you’re not allowing yourself to accept that it’s what you need to feed off.” Another step toward him. “You’re afraid of it. _Ashamed_ of—”

He gets in her face so fast it’s like a cobra striking its prey. _“Fuck you,_ Granger,” he snarls. “Fuck you and your little conjectures. All of them.” He’s baring his teeth in her face and jabbing a cold finger into her collarbone. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

It takes every spare ounce of will to take one more step into him, putting their bodies flush against each other. _“Nor you me,”_ she hisses.

They’re so close, his hot breath is blasting up against her face — his furious panting chest touching her own with every inhale. She thinks if she blinks, her eyelashes will brush against his chin.

But that’s just it. She can’t blink. Not for the life of her. Not with the way he’s _looking_ at her.

There’s fury there, absolutely. But also something else she’s both terrified and helpless to seek out. A flicker. A hint of something heated and nervous and altogether intoxicating.

_This is Malfoy,_ a warning in her head screams. _Look at you. What are you doing? This is Malfoy._

And it is.

It’s Malfoy.

Malfoy who’s suddenly leaning in. Malfoy who’s tilting his chin down. Malfoy slotting his nose ever so carefully against hers, as though one wrong movement will shatter the both of them.

And it’s also her. Her who’s tilting up. Her who’s lifting onto her toes. Her who brings their lips together — and even as she does, a part of her knows he’ll never ever let her forget it.

He makes a noise against her mouth the moment it touches his. Something repressed and painful and entirely too taxing on her own capacity for balance. She pitches forward into him, somehow surprised when he catches her weight. Gathers her up against him, opening his lips against hers and sealing them hungrily over what flesh he can find. Her tongue. Her lips. Her fucking _teeth._

It’s a devouring.

And she can do nothing but stand there and let him do it. _Help_ him do it.

Her hands fist in his shirt just as his fist in her curls, knotting tight enough to be painful. Enough to make her eyes water.

Why does she wish he’d do it harder?

She bites down on his lower lip, because he tastes like sweet rum and bitters and it’s heady — maddening — and it must flip some kind of switch. Malfoy releases her hair and goes for her hips, dragging her so tightly against him it’s like he means to crush her. He wrenches his mouth free of hers and buries his face in her neck. Tongues and bites and laps at the column of her throat, dragging his teeth down the length of it when she makes a sound he seems to like, and —

What…

What is she doing?

What are _they_ doing?

What is —

She panics. Rips herself away, almost too conscious of the way his fingers trail desperately at the hem of her skirt — try to pull her back.

She does the only thing she can think of.

_“Finite,”_ she gasps out, flicking her wand towards the Glamoured Dementor and then staggering out of the way.

The Dementor reappears just as the Patronus around it falls, leaving nothing in its path to Malfoy. Malfoy, who — hair tousled and lips swollen and shirt pulled astray — seems almost too slow to pick up on what’s happening.

But then the chill fills the room, the dread leeching its way through Hermione’s skin — crushing the flaming desire of moments ago into nothing and leaving dust in its wake.

Malfoy’s eyes widen with panic, and his hand is shaking when it finds his wand.

The Dementor senses his warmth. Senses the passion even as it fades from his eyes. It lunges for Malfoy like he’s a beacon in the dark.

_“Expecto Patronum!”_

Hermione feels the hair stand up on the back of her neck, because — she knew. She _knew._

Bright blue light bursts forth from Malfoy’s wand, exploding out in front of him until she can no longer see his face. And she’s hoping for a shield form. Nothing more. But —

A swan. More broad and graceful than any she’s seen in real life.

The great bird spreads its wings. Beats them in calm, graceful pulses until the Dementor recoils beneath its light. And she just manages to get her thoughts straight in time to reset the bubble charm, trapping the creature at its weakest.

The swan takes off into the air and explodes into nothing, little wisps of blue falling in its absence. Leaving the office dark.

It seems to take both of them a good minute or so to take a breath.

Malfoy stands at his desk, unmoving. Wand arm lax at his side.

She forces herself to stand, even feeling her knees start to wobble the moment she puts weight on them. She can’t think of a single word to say. Can’t think of how to respond to that, or — or worse still, _before_ that.

All she knows is she needs to leave.

She makes a beeline for the door. Sways on her feet as she casts a charm to make the Dementor follow her out, but Malfoy speaks before she can escape.

“You swore,” he says quietly. And he’s looking at the ground when she manages to turn to him, his gaze wide and glassy. Unfocused. “You swore you wouldn’t do it until I was ready.”

She swallows thickly, hand trembling on the doorknob. Swallows back the guilt because — _no,_ she _refuses_ to feel guilty. Not when she was so sure. Not when she was right.

In a breathless voice that sounds nothing like her own, she manages, “Somehow, I knew you were.”

The Dementor follows her out.


	3. 3

She feels awful for days. A strange, muddled, upside-down sort of awful that mixes badly with the other half of what she’s feeling — and that other half is infinitely more nebulous and elusive. 

On the one hand, she knows she put Malfoy in an inordinate amount of danger, siccing the Dementor on him like she did. And while she still trusts the instinct that told her he was ready to face it in that moment, she can hardly fault him for his radio silence. There were no angry letters. No complaints filed.

No, only a sharp slice down the middle of their line of communication. Surgical. A clean cut.

Which would be well and good, were the other half of her at all interested in cooperating. At all concerned about what’s clearly best for both parties involved. 

But that half of her is somewhat preoccupied replaying the exact moment Malfoy’s lips grazed hers, over and over and _over_ again. When she sleeps. When she showers. When she eats. In every moment in which she doesn’t have something utterly concrete to focus on. When she reaches for a quill. When she stands up from her desk. Over and over and over. 

It was the sort of kiss that doesn’t exist in a glossary. Undefined. Ineffable. Shattering and altogether frustrating beyond belief, because a man like Malfoy is not supposed to know how to kiss like that. 

If she’d ever been asked to guess — and _who_ would’ve _ever_ asked — she’d have said Malfoy would kiss succinctly. Short and to the point; cold and clipped like the period at the end of a sentence. Every second of it would feel stiff, as though he’d practiced and planned out each moment down to the millisecond. 

She’d have been so, _so_ wrong. 

Malfoy kissed her like he was ready for her to dissolve in his arms at any instant. Like she was something ephemeral and precious and _rare_ , and thus worth devouring with all of the vigor he possessed. The passion and desperation in that kiss had made her knees weak. Had made her blood sing. Had frightened her. 

She blames the shock of it for her actions. Because all at once, it had felt like a reintroduction. Like meeting him — _truly_ meeting him — for the first time, even after existing on the same plane for so many years. Through so many things. It meant Draco Malfoy wasn’t so straightforward — no longer lined up with the image in her head, no longer fit in the box she’d put him in. And she was forced in that moment to consider there might be a great deal more to him. 

The realization had shot through her with enough force to restart a heart. 

Truly, this may be the most unproductive she’s ever been at the office. She’s torn between guilt and a strange, curious lust that has her glancing at the door every other moment, wondering if she should — _no_ — but what if she—

_NO._

Amelia finds her at the end of the day with her forehead pressed flat against her desk, just breathing in and out against the oak. 

“Are you…are you alright, Miss?”

Hermione thrusts her head back up and clears her throat. “Completely.” 

Amelia raises an eyebrow in the politest way she can. “Are you sure, Miss?”

She folds her fingers together in front of her and shuts her eyes, drawing in a deep, centering breath. “Completely.”

Amelia’s always been a good secretary. She knows when to nod and shut the door behind her. 

But this can’t go on. 

Never in her life has Hermione been capable of leaving things unfinished. The thought of loose ends makes the tips of her fingers itch. And Malfoy’s loose end is so frayed and imperfect she can hardly stand it. 

She pushes away from the desk, slowly getting to her feet and moving to the mirror beside her coat rack. Her stress is on open display, clothes wrinkled and curls askew. As she tucks them back into place, she tells herself she’ll simply have to be an adult about things. She’ll have to go down there and apologize. Swallow her pride. Tie that loose end off and consider it done.

She wipes at the mascara smudged beneath her eyes, straightens her skirt and blazer, and screws her courage to the sticking place. 

“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” she rehearses under her breath in the empty lift down. “Malfoy, allow me to— no. I _wanted_ _to_ apologize for my behav— my _misstep_ earlier. I — that was unfair of me and I shouldn’t have—”

_“Office for the Removal of Curses, Jinxes and Hexes,”_ the lift rudely announces, scattering her focus. 

Bill Weasley is there waiting. On his way out again, just her luck.

His eyebrows raise as she exits, sending a flush to her cheeks. “Back again?” he asks when they pass each other. 

And she really must be out of sorts, because she rarely snaps at anyone, let alone Bill — who she doesn’t know nearly well enough to excuse it. His tone, though. There’s something in it that sets her off. 

“Just what is _that_ supposed to mean?” she demands sharply, blush deepening as soon as the words are out. An absurd overreaction.

Bill’s brows jut even higher as the lift doors close in front of him, but he beats the apology on its way out of her throat by a couple of seconds. “Night then, Hermione.”

“Bloody brilliant,” she huffs when the lift catapults away, planting a hand on her hip and massaging her forehead. Worse still, when she turns around, she finds a man from the Records Office — name tag: FELIX — standing there staring at her.

_“What?!”_ she shouts, temper evidently missing in action. 

Felix gives a nervous splutter and drops a few papers as he rushes into the next available lift, leaving her alone in the office annex. 

Looks as though she’ll have two apologies to mail out tomorrow. 

Hermione sighs and takes another moment to collect herself, kneading the tension out of her neck. Her eyes settle on Malfoy’s office door, and she hears her pulse start to thud in her ears. 

There’s a possibility he’s already left for the evening. 

She’s not sure why such a large part of her would be disappointed if that were the case. 

_You just want to tie off loose ends_ , says the sensible voice in her end. _You want to get it over with._

“Right,” she reaffirms under her breath, tugging down once more on her blazer before stepping up to the door. She knocks once, gently, and tries to swallow down all of her panic.

“Yes, Felix — what did you forget?” comes Malfoy’s voice from within. He sounds tired and irritated and for half a second she’s consumed by the instinct to make a run for it. Instead, she forces her hand to find the doorknob, gathering one last deep breath before stepping inside. 

Malfoy’s at his desk, absolutely _buried_ in paperwork by the looks of it, and when his eyes flit up and find her he nearly knocks over a stack with his elbow. There’s a long moment of silence. A muscle works in his jaw, but he doesn’t speak. 

“I’m…” Hermione says quietly, clearing her throat when it comes out a rasp, “I’m still not Felix.” She forces a small smile, trying to cut through some of the tension in the room. 

“Shut the door behind you,” he says abruptly, and the tension comes right back. 

She swallows thickly. For a moment, she thinks he’s telling her to leave. But when the door clicks shut and she leans back against it, he doesn’t correct her. Only continues to stare, gaze guarded and a little too complex to riddle out from their distance. 

She makes herself take a few steps forward, and by then she has to clear her throat again to be sure her voice comes out clear. “I just wanted to apolog—”

“Don’t.” 

She blinks, fidgeting hands going still at her sides. “Excuse me?”

“I said don’t,” he clarifies, looking back down at his work and underlining something in a paragraph. “I don’t need it, and I’d rather not deal with this now.”

Her brows meet in the middle. “…Deal with what?”

“You.” Now he crosses something out, scratch of his quill loud and almost intentionally aggressive. 

_“Excuse_ me?” she says again, more life in it this time. More of a backbone. She never expected he’d be this flippant. 

“You heard me.”

She takes another step forward, pointing at the carpet. “Malfoy, I came down here to be _polite_. To — to apologize for putting you in a situation that perhaps you weren’t ready—”

“Don’t patronize me.” He says without looking up. “Just go.”

She scoffs a little louder than she means to, _“Patronize_ you? I’m — Malfoy, I’m not _patronizing_ you, I’m taking responsibility for something I did wrong—”

All at once, he goes from cold and detached to _furious_ , shooting up from his chair and slamming both palms down on his desk. That stack of paperwork that was threatening to go before topples off the side, but he hardly seems to notice. “Do you even _know_ what you did wrong? Or is this just one of those bland, coverall apologies?” 

She throws up her hands. “Of course I do! I — I put you in danger, and I shouldn’t have—”

“No — no, no,” he snaps, suddenly rounding the corner of the desk and getting rid of the barrier between them. “That’s not what you did.” He jabs a finger in her face. “You took advantage of me. That’s what you did. After you promised not to. You—”

She slaps his hand away — too close for her liking. _“How did I take advantage of you?”_

He laughs, cruel and unfriendly, and those few feet of space between them slowly start to disappear. “You’re joking. You must be. I know how smart you are, Granger, so don’t try to fucking pretend you didn’t know exactly what you were doing right from the start. From that first fucking time you showed up at my door.” 

“What are you _talking_ about?” she demands, voice rising — incredulous.

His sharp features settle into a mocking sneer as he speaks in a simper meant to be her own. “Oh, poor Malfoy. No happy memory to feed off of. Here, let me just get inside your head and _fuck everything up!”_ The last comes out in his own voice — an enraged growl. 

Her anger falters, giving way to confusion. “Malfoy, I don’t…”

“Did you think it would be funny?” he demands, well and truly in her face now. Too close to be good for her focus. For a level head. “Do you get some sort of sick satisfaction out of sifting through all my insecurities?” 

Nothing he’s saying makes any sense. _“Malfoy—”_ She tries to stop him. 

But he just blurts it all out in one go.

“What fun! What an absolute fucking _joy_ it must be, coming down here and prying your way into my head and using my deficiencies as a way to confirm what you already know! And then — _then!”_ He explodes into another unhappy laugh, throwing his hands towards the ceiling like he can hardly believe it. “Then, when you get _exactly_ what you’re looking for — all the proof you could ever fucking need — what’s your gift to me? A fucking _Dementor.”_ Another growl rips out of his throat before he cards his hands — shaking — through his hair. Then he smacks them together in front of him and dips into a mock bow. “Thank you, Granger. _Thank you._ It’s been a fucking pleasure.”

She’s short-circuiting. Hopelessly confused and at a loss for words.

But she has enough control over herself to reach out and snatch his wrist when he turns to go back to his desk.

“Oh, don’t you—” he starts in a hiss, but she yanks hard and cuts him off. 

_“Listen to me.”_

His teeth are bared, eyes bright and wild, the tendons in his wrist sharply defined in her grip. But he stays silent.

“You listen to me,” she repeats, not letting go. Only squeezing for emphasis. “I am not a liar. When I say I don’t know what you’re talking about, I mean it, Malfoy. I’ve no idea of this grand scheme you seem to believe I have. All I know is that — that _somehow_ I’ve hurt you. I can tell you with all honesty that I didn’t intend to hurt you, but I understand that I still have. Trust me, you’ve made it _quite_ clear. So now all that’s left is for you to tell me how and for me to apologize for it. It’s as simple as that.” She lets go of him at last, surprised by the red outline of her fingers blossoming on his skin. 

As she spoke, the expression in Malfoy’s eyes had faded from furious to confused, now settling into something in the realm of conflicted. He turns, cautious and slow, to face her fully once more, and his voice is low. Chastened. “I thought you knew. You…it — it seemed like you knew.”

“Knew what?” she asks, trying to temper her voice as well, though her tone comes out more earnest than anything. “Just tell me, Malfoy.” And she says again, “It’s as simple as that.”

A little huff blows through his lips. He shakes his head. “It isn’t simple.” 

“Is it…is this about the memory?” she murmurs, entirely too conscious of the way his breath hitches. “The one you have to think of to produce the charm? Because whatever it is, Malfoy, you can tell me. I swear it doesn’t matter. It won’t. Not to me.”

“It matters, Granger,” he says, sounding dejected and bitter. But when he folds his arms across his chest, leans back against the edge of his desk and says, “You first,” she doesn’t expect it. And at first, she isn’t quite sure of his meaning.

“What?” 

“You first,” he echoes. “Your memory for mine.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, but when she does, it’s just —

“Oh.”

Malfoy arches an eyebrow in challenge, a bit distracting in its high, elegant angle. “Well?”

She clears her throat, shifting her weight to one hip and scratching a nonexistent itch on her forearm. “It’s just…” She sighs. “Mine is — mine’s _childish.”_ Her nose scrunches up at the thought of it.

“Good,” says Malfoy unexpectedly. “Maybe if it’s bad enough, it’ll be a fair trade. Tell me.”

She shifts her weight to the other hip. Glances away, knowing he’ll see her blush regardless. “Fine,” she says, urging courage into her voice. “It’s…erm.” She clears her throat for the thousandth time and goes for it. “A little before the War, when Harry and I were hunting Horcruxes, Ron left. He thought there was no hope in it, and he thought Harry and I were acting strange, and he just left us. I don’t think I’ve ever been more furious in my life.”

Her eyes find that cursed teacup and fix themselves on it — a safer place to look than Malfoy.

“A few weeks later, Harry found the Sword of Gryffindor. He followed something into the woods that led him to it, and when he was gone for too long, I went after him. At first I didn’t know what I was seeing. Ron was there, and that didn’t make any sense to me — and he and Harry were trying to destroy the locket. I’m sure you know a lot about Horcruxes. How they work. Exposing your weaknesses and worst fears.”

She lets her eyes flit to him briefly — sees him nod before she looks away again.

“Well, I saw Ron’s that night. He still doesn’t know that I saw — I’ll never tell him. But I hid in the trees and I saw.” She blows out a harsh breath. “It was me. It was me, but I was with Harry instead of him. Comparing him to Harry. _Kissing_ Harry. And he was _terrified_ of it.” She shrugs one shoulder, rubbing nervously at her wrist. “Ron always seemed so…indifferent to me. The things he did in school, even when I think he knew how I felt about him — it just seemed like he didn’t care. But in that moment — seeing how much he cared, how much I affected him…how _insecure_ I could make him — how much my opinion mattered — I don’t know, it just made me feel powerful. More powerful than I’d ever felt before.” 

It takes her a long time to risk another glance at Malfoy, but when she does, she doesn’t find the expression she’s expecting.

He just seems to mull it over, quietly contemplating her words. No judgement. No opinion. 

“That’s…erm — that’s it,” she feels the need to say in the wake of his silence.

“Right,” is his only response, at long last. Then he exhales deeply and pushes off the edge of the desk, pointing to the corner of his office behind her. “Grab that for me, will you?”

She glances over her shoulder, voice timid — a little caught off guard. “Grab what?”

“That basin over there. It’s a Pensieve. Bring it to me.”

In any other situation, she might have a go at him for ordering her around. As it is, she’s so bewildered and unsure and somehow just the slightest bit hopeful that she does it without question.

It’s not unlike the one she remembers from Dumbledore’s Office; a wide, marble dish of shallow water that floats when she takes hold of it. She guides it back towards Malfoy until it hovers between them, and he’s quick about it. As though if he stops and thinks, he’ll lose his nerve.

Hermione watches transfixed as he drags his wand out from his temple, the thin, glowing wisp of a memory trailing along after it. He casts it down into the basin, and the wisp explodes into curls of inky black.

“Go on, then,” he says — and it’s the faint, nervous crack in his voice that has her glancing up at him. Softening, just the slightest bit. He seems so on edge.

“If you would rather just tell me…” she starts, but he shakes his head.

“Can’t. This is the only way it’ll make sense to you.”

And for reasons she can hardly explain, she gives him an out. It must be the look in his eyes — so panicked, so skittish and afraid. It almost reminds her of the look she saw in Ron’s, that night in the woods. 

“Are you sure?”

Malfoy sets his jaw, resting back against the desk again and gesturing with a curt hand. “Do it.”

She gathers a breath. Leans forward and dips her face into the cool, swirling depths. 

The world that bleeds into view is a familiar one. 

She’s been here. She _was_ here. She knows it. Knows the distant hum of a violin drifting in from another room. Remembers the gilded stone walls and ceilings. The scent of gingerbread and pine. The holly strung across archways. The muted torchlight. All the glitz and glamor that was the Yule Ball, so many years ago.

_“Fuck off, Goyle,”_ comes Malfoy’s voice out of nowhere, and the view spins as his hand lifts into sight, shoving away the boy in question — Goyle, who looks to have been casting jinxes on Pansy’s dress.

Pansy was Malfoy’s date that night. She remembers now. She looks beautiful through Malfoy’s eyes — striking in that silver gown, even with her face twisted into a bored scowl.

_“When is this going to start?”_ she sighs. _“I’ve needed a drink for ages.”_

_“Whenever Krum’s date finally decides to make an appearance,”_ drawls Malfoy. _“Probably some Beauxbatons peacock still pruning her feathers in front of the mirror.”_

_“You mean the way you do?”_ Pansy asks, arching a superior eyebrow and jutting out her hip.

_“Oh, fuck off,”_ he says again, but Pansy doesn’t seem to hear. Her gaze has jolted upward, focused somewhere over Malfoy’s shoulder..

_“She looks beautiful,”_ comes the stunned voice of another girl off to the side — Parvati’s voice, Hermione realizes when Malfoy’s view turns — only his eyes don’t stop on her. The memory skids right past the bright oranges and pinks of her sari and lands at the top of the stone staircase instead.

Hermione can’t react to what she feels. She’s trapped, floating formless somewhere in Malfoy’s mind. She can only see. Can only know.

It’s her at the top of the stairs. Viktor’s long-awaited date. Only she doesn’t look at all how she remembers. 

In Malfoy’s eyes, she’s much changed. It’s as if — as if she’s somehow bathed in candlelight. Like there’s a glow beneath her skin, moving and alive, pulsing brighter with every step down the stairs she takes. The dress is how she remembers it, but the girl inside of it looks nothing like herself. This girl’s curls fall in perfect coils across her shoulders, swaying as she moves, her auburn eyes larger than life — warm and alight and inviting. Her cheeks are flushed and exhilarated and her smile is coy. Sweet. Enchanting.

_“Fucking hell.”_ Malfoy’s voice is so quiet she’s certain no one but him — and now her — knows he ever said it. The sound is strangled and forced and completely involuntary. 

And all at once Hermione can feel what he’s feeling.

Like the world’s falling out from under him. Like he’s in free fall. Pure, headlong, bottomless free fall. 

The sensation blends seamlessly with the way the memory ejects her from its depths in the next instant. She staggers back from the Pensieve, balance corrupted — dizzy and impaired for several long moments until she can gather her bearings.

Malfoy hasn’t moved an inch. When her eyes can focus, she finds him watching her from his spot against the desk the way one watches a live explosive tick down the last ten seconds on the counter. Rapt. Frozen. Waiting.

And for too long, she can only gape back at him. Her mouth opens and closes uselessly — almost comically. She can’t blink. Can’t speak. 

So he does.

“Satisfied?” he asks quietly, toneless. Giving nothing away. He no longer needs to. He’s given everything away in what he’s just shown her.

And some solitary working nerve drives her feet forward. She brushes the Pensieve aside with trembling fingers, breathing out slowly when there’s only an inch or so between them. 

Malfoy’s arms drop to his sides, splaying flat on the edge of the desk as though he’s bracing himself for something. His eyes flit between hers, searching, the rest of his face left carefully blank. She can’t wear masks the way he can. She’s certain he can see it written all over her. Everything she’s thinking. He probably knows better than she does what she’s feeling in this moment. 

Desperately, her mind scrambles for words. Anything — _anything_ at all it can use as a response to this — but she comes up empty-handed. She can’t speak. 

No, all she can do is take one more micro-step forward and lift her palm, shaking as she presses it softly against the broad plane of his cheek. Malfoy’s expression flickers, a subtle shift between uncertainty and relief as he stares into her eyes.

“What?” he asks, barely a whisper. His brows furrow. “What — why are you crying?” 

Is she? She hadn’t realized. But now that he mentions it, she can feel the slow warmth of the tears sliding down her face. It doesn’t matter. The words have finally found their way to the back of her throat. 

“…Is that…how you see me?” 

He seems only able to shrug — a movement so innocent and boyish it sends a fresh wave of tears swimming across her vision. She wipes them away with her free hand, drying it on her skirt before placing it on his other cheek. 

“Why…why didn’t you _tell_ me?” Her voice is practically a whimper now. She’s hardly aware enough of herself to care. 

Malfoy glances down — looks away, at his feet. She presses her palms more firmly against his cheeks to draw them back up to her. He chews on his lip for a moment before he can make himself admit it, and there’s shame in his gaze. 

“I thought you’d walk all over me.”

She makes a sound at that. Some small, meek little gasp — maybe a sigh, she doesn’t know. Will never know, because in the next instant she’s closed the distance. Her lips brush against his, gentle and shy and so, so _terribly_ careful not to ruin this. She refuses to do anything — even the most infinitesimal thing — to ruin this. 

Malfoy wakes up to it slowly. Enters into it with her in a way that’s drowsy and languid, even a little confused, his hands slipping off the edge of the desk and reaching out to lightly trace her hipbones through her skirt. His mouth opens against hers, just slightly before closing over her bottom lip. Suckling at it. Cautious. Like he’s not even sure he’s allowed to.

“You can kiss me back,” she murmurs without thinking. 

Malfoy goes still, fingers stuttering at her waist. 

“I’d like you to,” she amends, chasing his lips before he can retreat — letting her tongue flick up over their soft swell and speaking against them. “I _want_ you — to kiss me back.” 

It’s the first moment she knows for a fact that it’s true. And it’s what it takes to bring him to life. 

His timid fingers splay out, becoming palms pressed flat against ribs and hips and thighs, tracing. Sweeping. _Grasping_. His lips part again, only now he takes to her with his teeth. With his tongue. With a groan so restrained and desperate it sounds as if he’s been repressing it for years. 

She molds herself to him, becoming something less than solid — less than certain of anything but the press of his body against hers and the heat of his breath on her neck as he mouths his way down the column of her throat. 

Someone locks his office door. It could’ve been her or it could’ve been him — she doesn’t remember. She only knows it as mutual. A shared decision. A turning point. As though they agree in the same moment to grab hands and jump from the ledge.

“Is this okay?” he breathes against her as his fingers curl beneath the hem of her skirt. 

“Yes.”

“This?” Asked moments later, the smooth pad of his thumb tracing the lace of her underwear. 

“Yes.”

“Okay?” Asked as two fingers slide inside of her, one right after the other — as her body jolts and her head lolls forward onto his shoulder and her teeth latch onto the tendon just above his collarbone.

_“Yes.”_ Just a hiss of breath — barely audible. Her mouth is occupied. He stops asking after that, but still she says, _“Yes — yes — yes,”_ every other second. Gasps and chokes and strangled whimpers into the warm flesh of his chest as he rocks those fingers into her slowly. So slowly. With more patience and tenderness and undivided attention than she thought he could ever have. 

His shoulders are a sure weight in her hands — safe and steady, bracing her as she falls over the edge the first time. She groans against him at the pain, because it hurts. It does. It’s not the tight clutch of her walls around his fingers — not the fact that she hasn’t been touched in months. No, what hurts is giving in to it. Letting go. Letting him chase her over the edge and trusting him not to let her fall to her death immediately afterward.

She does fall, in the literal sense — but he goes with her to the floor — and the gentle cycle of it starts again.

“Is this okay?” Asked as he takes the zip of her skirt between his fingers, freshly licked clean after he pulled them out of her. She has no idea how deeply she blushed at that.

“Yes.”

“And this?” Asked as he works at his own belt buckle.

_“Please.”_ She helps him to pull it free of the loops on his trousers.

“This?” Asked as he hitches her thigh up around his naked hip, warm and damp with sweat and a more beautiful sight than she could’ve ever hoped for. 

“Yes. Yes. _Yes.”_

He’s so impossibly gentle with her. So conscious of the resistance and of each hitch in her breathing, hesitating at every flicker of discomfort that crosses her face. 

“There?” he asks as he thrusts in deep, glancing down to see her toes curl. “Like that?” When her fingernails scrape down the strong line of his back and her head falls back against the carpet.

_“Fuck.”_

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes — _yes.”_

With the echo of his low groan in her ears and his head against her chest, panting and weak with orgasm, it’s her turn to ask.

“Is this okay?” she murmurs in his ear as she traces her fingers lazily across his shoulder blades. 

“Yes,” he whispers, breathless. “Yes.”

  
She pokes her head into Harry’s office early the next morning. “Harry — hi, how are you?”

He smiles and yawns, giving her a cheers with his cup of tea. 

“Sorry to bother. Could I just grab one of those Office Relationship Forms from you?”

His smile widens. “You and Ron?” He’s still smiling when he turns back from the filing drawer, holding it out to her. “Great to hear the two of you worked things out.”

“Oh no. No, no.” She smiles back, taking the paper from him. “Thanks Harry.”

“I don’t understa—”

She stops and pivots in the doorway, realizing. “Oh sorry, sorry. I’ll need one for Malfoy, too.” 

Harry’s mouth is still hanging open long after she leaves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1E6nzpe8PxQGj81ZZWlQI9?si=1Ye8Df1rR8iXczYUSd3RhQ


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